


talk (ziggy) stardust to me, baby.

by talking_tina



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A feeling in Pete's bones won't keep still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talk (ziggy) stardust to me, baby.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using fictional characters based in the likenesses of real people. Never happened, and I do not own these names.

"Peeeeeeeete," Patrick drawls, a half-empty beer bottle dangling dangerously from his right hand while his left pushes at Pete's kneecap. "Pete, move."

Pete grins drunkenly at him, and only spreads himself more over the armchair. "Nuh-uh. You move."

Patrick pouts, upset, and Pete will be damned if that isn't the cutest thing ever (outside of Bronx, of course. Bronx is pretty damn cute). "But Pete. I wanna sit. On something that isn't the ground. Because the ground is, like, icky." He wrinkles his nose and frowns at the carpet.

"I'm not moving," Pete says stubbornly, and laughs when Patrick turns to blink up dumbly at him from where he's kneeling.

"Yes, you are. Move. I wanna sit."

"And I wanna stay."

"Move."

"You move!"

"Move or I'll sit on you." And Pete laughs, because Patrick says it like it's a threat.

"Yeah, okay."

Patrick's pout turns into a grin in about point-zero-three seconds flat, and then he's clamoring into Pete's lap, beer bottle (amazingly) still dangling from his loose grip around the neck of it. Pete adjusts himself so Patrick doesn't end up with his knees crushing Pete's balls or some other valuable body part. 

For a few seconds, there's just warm skin and the brush of cotton fabric on denim, Patrick's hot breath on his shoulder; then he's pulling away, having found a position he could more or less balance in, considering his drunken state. After having apparently approved, the blonde looks back up at Pete, and laughs, so Pete laughs, too. They're close enough that Pete can see straight into his eyes, but the chandlier is all funky and there's only a string of colored Christmas lights on this side of the living room, anyway, so the color of his irises is impossible to tell. They're still sort of pretty.

"Hey," Pete says. "Hey, look at you, you did it." Patrick grins wider and tilts his head to the side, glasses sliding a few milimeters down his nose. "God bless your tiny-ness. You are so adorable." And then he's pinching the softness just below Patrick's belly button and the other squeals, pushing Pete away with the beer bottle even though he's holding onto his shoulder with the other.

Pete grins, and lets his fingers dance up Patrick's sides and up his back and to his shoulders and back down his arms, and Patrick giggles and snorts like he never grew past five, attempting to kick out but not really able, since he's straddling Pete with his knees tucked on either side of the chair.

Pete eventually stops and settles his hands around Patrick's waist, the other still cherry-red (at least, Pete thinks he is; the unusual lighting makes it hard to tell) and laughing, pressing his face into Pete's shoulder.

"Mmm, getting the band back together is the best idea we've had since starting it," Pete mumbles, after a brief moment of thought. He noses Patrick's shoulder. "God, I love you."

Patrick smiles into his shoulder, turns toward his neck. "Yeah, love you too."

Pete looks up and finds Joe smiling knowingly at them, and arm thrown around Marie's shoulders. Pete grins goofily back, and wraps both arms around Patrick's waist, hugging him close.

He turns and finds Meagan standing in the doorway with a cocktail held elegantly in one hand (she's just that kind of girl) and she's talking with Chelsea, that girl from management, who is not-so-secretly Pete's fashion icon. Meagan accidently catches his eye in one of her brief scans of the room, and at first they pause and simmer at the crumpled pile of adorable in his lap, but then she sees the blonde hair and maroon cardigan and something along the lines of _oh yeah, patrick_ flash in her eyes. She grins and waves, and Pete waves back.

"Meagan says hi,"

"Patrick says hi, too," he replies, and Pete snorts. He remembers the time Meagan had first found them holding hands, remembers her demanding, three hours later, "Are you chea--what even are you two?" And he shrugged, went, "Soulmates, I guess. Like, meant to be. But not like us. Fate planned the way for me and Patrick, but you and I? We'll make a way." And then it suddenly made sense.

Pete sighs, an age-old possessiveness of the blonde in his lap--a feeling that had once stilled and settled away in his bones--reawakening in the happy, drunken presence of the other. It isn't normal, but Pete wants to hold him close and buy him Tom Waits vinyls and write songs with him until the day they die ( _believers never--_ ). It isn't normal, but nothing about them had ever been normal. Nothing about them ever will be.

"Hey, hey, Cookie Jar," he whispers. "You're my forever boy."

"I'm pretty sure that I'm, like, a man now, or something," Patrick murmurs, voice further muffled by Pete's shirt. "I'm twenty-eight. But sure, okay. You're mine, too."

Pete grins down at him, perfect. "Forever," he echoes.

**Author's Note:**

> The result of Christmas lights in my bedroom at one in the morning and a lot of Coldplay. Also, my apologies for the David Bowie ref in the title.


End file.
